


Nothing Rhymes With Purple

by bluebeholder



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flower Language, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Mute Corvo Attano, Mutual Pining, They're Awful Make Them Stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: “Flowers are funny and elegant and romantic, and they make people so happy; they bring the natural world indoors, exemplifying the best of what our otherwise-garbage planet has to offer.”—Meredith Graves (Rookie)The Outsider is a florist notorious for uncanny arrangements. Corvo might be under a geas to keep coming back to the shop. It remains to be seen what role the violets will play in this strange fairy tale.





	Nothing Rhymes With Purple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adrift_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/gifts).



> Hi, Dishonored fandom, I'm baaaaaack! Drift asked me for a delightful, soft flower-shop fic, with plenty of flowers, art, and flirting. Apparently I did okay. <3<3<3
> 
> The discourse on violets is, yes, taken from tumblr. I've taken the liberty of expanding it where necessary...and obviously adding a few twists and turns. :3
> 
> Enjoy!

The new flower shop on John Clavering Boulevard is, according to Emily, “someplace you’d hate, Dad, it’s really weird.” Apparently, people come looking for one thing and leave with something else altogether and can’t remember why they made a different choice. If they return the arrangement, then they usually end up in some kind of mess: if they don’t, then they experience a stroke of good fortune. No one quite knows what to do with it.

Because he trusts his daughter, Corvo had assiduously avoided the place up until today. But then came the frantic text storm from Wyman on Friday afternoon, begging Corvo to please pick up the flowers he’d ordered for Emily, and Corvo didn’t have the heart to say no.

There’s no bell over the door when he comes into the shop on that fateful Saturday morning, and Corvo has to stop for a moment to take in what he’s seeing here. All the flower shops he’s been in before usually have white walls and airy space, like a greenhouse; this place has charcoal-gray walls, and though its windows are filled with flowers and there’s plenty of light, it still seems that he’s stepped right out of time altogether.

And behind the counter is a pale, thin young man with keen green eyes and dark hair, who takes Corvo in at one sweep when he enters. “You’re here to pick up flowers in the place of Mr. Wyman,” the florist assesses immediately. It’s accompanied by the flicker of his hands as he deftly signs along with the words, a comfortable and subtle cue that Corvo can sign with him and not worry about it. So Wyman had mentioned Corvo’s disability. Good man.

He signs his thanks and waits while the young florist, whose nametag reads “Levi,” gets the order together. Wyman is clearly a hopeless romantic: it’s a burst of blood-red, long-stemmed roses. Quite the typical bouquet for a besotted fiancée, but Emily will appreciate the gesture all the same. What strikes Corvo’s eye is the fact that the filler flowers aren’t the baby’s-breath he’s used to seeing, but little white star-shaped flowers, soft and sweet-smelling.

At the look askance that Corvo gives the bouquet, Levi shrugs. “Bouvardia, the filler flower I used, is atypical for rose bouquets like this, but it represents enthusiasm…and listening to Mr. Wyman on the phone, I had the impression that he is the most enthusiastic suitor since Romeo.”

Corvo breaks into a smile and signs that yes, yes, that is exactly how Wyman is. He’ll make sure to tell Emily about the meaning, so she gets it. She’ll like it, he thinks as he pays and exits. Really, that shop isn’t nearly as weird as Emily had implied.

He’s a little bit surprised when Monday afternoon inexplicably finds him at the door again.

“Back again?” Levi asks with a subtle little smile. “Wanting flowers for yourself?”

It’s a bit of a lie, but Corvo’s all right at those. He replies that no, it’s not for him, it’s a request from Emily, that she’s having a dinner party for business associates and sent him back to ask. The dinner party is really happening; Emily didn’t actually ask for flowers. But Levi takes the request at face value, thinking about it as Corvo speaks.

“I have a few questions,” he says, picking up a notepad and paper. He takes down the answers: the room is white with navy and gold accents, the dinner is informal for work associates and not superiors, the table is round and there are only five other people attending. When he’s done asking questions, Levi nods. “All right. I think this will take…oh, an hour. There’s a coffee shop down the street.”

And just like that he’s gone through the door into the back. Corvo shakes his head and goes to wait it out. When he returns he’s presented with a small arrangement, low in profile in a simple vase. Half a dozen nearly black irises, supported by clusters of velvety silver leaves, interspersed with stems of little white flowers with yellow centers. It’s striking, understated, and somehow manages to look exactly like Emily, if she were a bouquet of flowers.

“Black gamecock irises,” Levi says, one finger stroking a petal. “Generally meaning wisdom and valor. Dusty miller for the white color; also generally symbolizes delicacy, which if my guess is correct is a quality that your daughter somewhat lacks. And feverfew, a remedial plant for the headaches she is going to have to deal with after such a dinner.”

It’s astounding, the kind of insight that this young florist has. Come to think of it—Corvo has never even heard of these meanings of flowers. When he mentions it to Levi, how exceptional this is, the young man just shrugs it off. Corvo pays for the flowers and goes on his way. Emily likes them quite a bit, but side-eyes Corvo hard and asks where he got them. He just shrugs and keeps his hands full while Emily is within questioning distance, so he has an excuse not to answer.

On Friday, Callista Curnow texts in hysterics because her aunt is in a snit over flowers for a baby shower. The current arrangements, apparently, weren’t good enough for the aunt, and the shower is tomorrow. Callista is technically in charge of them, but has no idea where to go. She begs Corvo to help her out. He agrees, because he has an immediate destination in mind, and promises to go the second he gets off work.

When he walks in the door he sees Levi really smile, looking up from the counter. “Hello,” he says, with surprising warmth. “Flowers for yourself yet?”

No, Corvo tells him, unfortunately he’s serving as an emergency stand-in for the seeker of flowers for a baby shower. At that, Levi perks up. Apparently he doesn’t get many of those requests, given this shop’s general air of upscale and formal service, and he’s excited to do something out of the ordinary.

Corvo texts Callista while Levi deals with another couple of customers picking up fairly standard arrangements. When he returns to the counter, he has a list of the necessary attributes of the ten small centerpieces they require. Bright primary colors are preferred; simple and very small; something that seems closer to casual.

“I do wish that Miss Curnow could have come herself, but you’re good at this,” Levi says. “I think I can have these ready by tomorrow morning, seven o’clock. Before opening hours, I think. Will you come by to pick them up?”

Of course, Corvo signs to him, he’ll be there on time. It’s a business transaction, over quickly. Still, for some reason Corvo pauses before making his exit, and then cautiously asks if Levi would like him to bring anything along, since it’s so early.

Levi blinks at him in confusion and tilts his head, a curious little smile on his face. “I won’t say no to coffee,” he admits. “All the frills—I like it sweet. Just bring the receipt, will you?”

On his way home, Corvo privately decides that he’s going to conveniently lose the receipt on his way from the coffeeshop. And he does, dropping it into a handy trash can on his way out the door. He arrives at the flower shop with two coffees—his own black and Levi’s liquid confection—and a paper bag with a small croissant in it.

The door is unlocked, though the sign says “CLOSED”, and there’s an incongruous low cardboard box and stack of folded paper bags on the counter. Corvo would like to call out, or get Levi’s attention, but the young man doesn’t even bother with a counter bell, it seems. So Corvo sits down in one of the chairs by the window to wait. There are books on flower arranging and magazines on gardening stacked on the table. Corvo has coffee and time to kill; he takes out his reading glasses and puts them on, flipping absently through one of the magazines as he sips his coffee.

Suddenly there’s a series of alarming noises: the door to the back room swinging open, a startled gasp, a crash, and a cry of pain. Corvo bolts to his feet and sees Levi clutching his hand behind the counter, a bleeding cut across his palm. He drops everything and goes behind the counter, seeing the broken glass strewn everywhere.

“I tripped and dropped a bowl,” Levi says, staring at Corvo with an unreadable expression.

Corvo’s rather glad that, if someone had to get their hand cut open, it wasn’t him: he can at least demand to know where the hell Levi keeps his first-aid kit, and once the young florist is patched up, the broom and dustpan are so that Corvo can sweep up the glass.

Even though Levi tries to insist on getting right back to it, Corvo won’t let him. And Levi gives up quickly, when he realizes that he’s been brought a liquid explosion of sugar and a soft croissant. He locks up the front door and sits down at the table with Corvo, where he outlines his plan for the shower arrangements. “I need your help,” he admits, wincing as he curls his injured hand. “The plan is to take these plain vases and wrap them in a paper bag—I have a successful test case in the back if you want to see what they look like. I absolutely can’t manage it one-handed, and I certainly can’t do it without getting blood everywhere. Will you?”

Corvo cocks a grin at him and signs that of course he will, but he won’t be talkative company.

“Your company’s fine whether you’re talking or not,” Levi says. And then he seems flustered, and stops talking about anything but business. The high color in his cheeks, Corvo thinks, is rather sweet. He’s so arch and standoffish, but then this happens.

The arrangements themselves are simple: a single Gerbera daisy, of red, orange, yellow, or purple, with several sprigs of white baby’s breath. Each vase stands in a white paper bag, tied at the neck with a complementary ribbon to hide the vase. When the ten arrangements are done and settled in the box, Corvo has been at the flower shop for a little more than an hour. He and Levi haven’t exchanged fifty words since they started finishing the arrangements, but Corvo feels ridiculously comfortable.

“Oh—” Levi says, as Corvo tries to work out how to get the door without dropping anything, “—I forgot to pay you back for the coffee. Wait just a moment.”

Corvo shakes his head, trying to convey without hands that he’s perfectly all right with this, and thinks the message gets across. Levi looks cross, but the color is back, as if he’s a little bit embarrassed and even happy. He doesn’t argue, but watches Corvo go, and Corvo doesn’t feel guilty in the slightest for somewhat bullying the young man into sitting down and drinking coffee. After the morning he’s had, he deserves it.

It’s a month before Corvo is back at the shop. Emily’s birthday springs itself on him without warning, and though he hasn’t thought once about flowers all month his first thought when he realizes he needs to do something is that he should go and see Levi. It doesn’t occur to him until he’s walking into the shop that his first thought was not of the flower shop, but of the florist himself.

The day is busy, and though he’s arrived after work he still has to wait until nearly closing time. He doesn’t mind, busying himself with responding to emails and doing some work on his tablet until, at last, he’s the last customer in the flower shop. When he goes up to the counter, he half expects that Levi will have forgotten him.

“Corvo! It’s good to see you,” Levi says, looking up at him with his faint smile. “Are you here looking for your own flowers yet?”

He laughs and denies that, signing that he’s looking for flowers for Emily’s birthday. It’s really noticeable, how closely Levi watches Corvo when he speaks, intent on catching every nuance. The consideration is really pleasant, considering.

Levi drums his fingers on the counter. “She prefers dark colors and gold, right?” Corvo affirms it and Levi turns away, preoccupied. “Follow me.”

Before going around the counter, Corvo reaches over it and taps Levi on the shoulder. The young man turns and watches as Corvo asks if this is an inconvenience. Doesn’t he have other people to worry about? It’s not closing time yet.

And then Levi’s across the shop, flipping the sign on the door. “Yes, it is,” he says, and ducks into the back room without ado. Corvo follows, confused but strangely happy.

He stands by the wall and watches as Levi moves deliberately through the back room. Here are flowers in profusion, boxes and vases and flats, a full greenhouse of esoteric plants. What kind of magic is this young man working, to keep such an Eden here? Corvo’s transfixed. Though he’s not one for poetry, it occurs to him that the green of Levi’s eyes is precisely the green of the light in this paradisiacal room.

“I think,” Levi says at last, “I’ll do something she can stand on a table and admire, out of the way…vines of Dark Eyes clematis, the color because she’ll like it and the flower because it’s symbolic of love for a child. For fill, we’ll have silver dollar eucalyptus, mostly for smell, and yellow cinquefoil for color and standing for a beloved child. That will be all, really; the flowers should stand on their own, because it will be a low arrangement that drapes well…”

How in the hell Levi remembers all this just looking at vines and plants is utterly beyond Corvo, but enchants him all the same. He sits on a stool Levi offers and waits, watching as the florist takes cuttings and silently arranges the flowers with a delicate and precise hand. It occurs to Corvo that he’s watching a master at work.

Levi tries to make him take the arrangement for free, but Corvo won’t hear of it. After a brief argument, Levi gives up and Corvo pays him exactly what he’s owed, plus a sizeable tip. Because of being allowed to watch the magic happen, he explains, and Levi’s normally stern expression melts into a smile.

“It’s not magic,” he protests.

It certainly seems like magic to Corvo.

There’s really no rhyme or reason to the fact that Corvo finds himself at the flower shop fifteen minutes before closing time on the very next Saturday. Here he is, anyway, and when he comes in he gets a full-fledged smile from the florist behind the counter. “Let me guess. You’re still not here for your own flowers, are you?”

Unfortunately, no, Corvo tells him. He just thought he’d…stop by. What Corvo refrains from saying is that he still has no real idea why he’s here. He’s even confused himself.

“That’s fine,” Levi says. He locks up the door and turns the sign to closed. “Come to the back. I’d love to talk but I do have work…”

Shaking his head in astonishment, Corvo follows Levi to the back in the greenhouse. On the table is a small, wide-mouthed vase; beside it is a tray of velvety cut roses, such a dark red that they’re almost black, several brilliant and fluffy orange marigolds, and a heap of gorgeous soft ferns. Levi reorients the organization slightly, gesturing at the tall stool. Corvo perches on it and a moment later realizes that Levi’s deliberately placed himself where he can naturally see Corvo’s hands. They can have a real conversation, apparently, and Corvo can’t restrain a grin.

He asks, as Levi begins constructing the internal framework (a grid of cellophane tape over the mouth of the vase, to hold the top-heavy flowers), who this arrangement is for. Levi, pouring water and preservative solution in, explains. “For a young writer. Marigolds for pretty love and for sorrow; a flower of the dual nature that the best writers possess. Burgundy roses for an unconscious beauty, which this woman is. And ferns, for magic, fascination, and confidence. All qualities she possesses…or needs.”

Corvo leans back against the edge of the table behind him, leaving his hands free to talk. Does Levi ask every customer for this? Or does he simply make his choices based on the personality of the customer, and never tell them?

“I don’t usually explain the potential of the arrangement,” Levi says. He’s begun stripping leaves off the lower stems, carefully setting the dark roses in place. As he talks, he turns the lazy Susan on which the vase sits, using it to make things symmetrical. “It disturbs people when you start telling them that you know their innermost secrets just by looking at them. But I find that the right combinations of flowers can make people feel…more secure, I suppose. Happier.”

After that, they fall into a comfortable silence. Levi is fully focused on the flowers, constructing a little dome of roses, and then studding the whole thing with marigolds. Around the base he fluffs a collar of ferns, setting off the darkness of the roses. It’s incredible. Corvo, when Levi glances at him, comments that this writer will be sure to love it.

“One hopes,” Levi says. He gives Corvo a long, unreadable look. “You don’t like flowers much yourself, do you?”

No, Corvo replies. Not until now, anyway. Watching Levi work, seeing the effect of these arrangements, may have changed his opinions somewhat. And that comment makes Levi turn even redder than before, as if Corvo’s really embarrassed him, but he’s still smiling when Corvo takes his leave.

After that Corvo gets used to simply “dropping by” at the end of the day and saying hello. Levi asking him if he wants flowers for himself yet and Corvo simply shaking his head before joining Levi in the back room becomes almost a ritual. It becomes a comfort, something to be expected, something Corvo looks forward to. His job as an accountant pays well, and it’s always been passably fulfilling, but at the same time it’s intensely boring. Since Jessamine passed and Emily moved out, Corvo’s life has been…fairly empty. He’s paid plenty of attention to his physical health, because he has the time, but he has few enough hobbies, and few friends who will stay around when he can’t easily hold a conversation with many. Levi is different. Fascinating.

He starts noticing the beauty of Levi’s hands, the tender way he holds plants, the way he looks at Corvo, when he thinks Corvo isn’t watching. After a while, Levi opens up, rambling about whatever topic is at hand while he works. He discusses flower biology, the personalities of customers, science, the arts. It seems that just about anything catches his fancy, but it all comes back to flower arranging, in the end. And though he talks a lot, Corvo doesn’t feel as Levi is talking over him. Whenever Corvo has a comment and raises his hands to deliver it, Levi stops talking and watches, waiting. They get along well. It’s an island of peace, on which strange flowers are beginning to bloom.

Three weeks pass liked this, and Corvo is happy in his routine. Of course, something does happen to disrupt it. One day when Corvo arrives, it’s to find an angry woman storming out of the shop and Levi, perched behind the counter, glaring after her. Corvo looks at the slamming door, then at Levi. He doesn’t even have to sign his question.

Levi points at the door. “She left because I don’t use violets in arrangements and she just has to have them. So off she goes to talk to Delilah, who’ll do anything for a price. Barely makes her customers happy: her arrangements give people nightmares! And she uses violets! I don’t understand! Do you know how much I hate violets?”

No, Corvo replies, Levi hasn’t mentioned that before. He leans on the counter, listening. Why?

“It all comes down to the color,” Levi says, waving a hand. He’s calming down a little, as he talks, rambling as he always does. Corvo is trying to listen, but honestly he’s just watching Levi’s graceful gestures and green eyes. “Violet is a spectral color, it has a wavelength, it is identifiable. Purple, on the other hand, does not exist; it’s a combination of the spectral colors red and blue. But spectral violet is rather dull and so purple is what we call our violets. Stupid, isn’t it? And then we have to go and decide in an asinine quatrain that violets aren’t even purple, they’re blue!”

Point.

“There are tracts to be written on why ‘violets are blue’ in that poem. Honestly? I think it’s because violets are purple and you can’t rhyme with that! Color theory and physics be damned. Roses are red, violets are blue, and they’re only blue because _nothing rhymes with purple_!”

Levi is breathing hard by the time he’s done. He looks genuinely mad. Corvo’s heart goes out to him, though he doesn’t entirely understand the irritation. After a moment of thought, Corvo signs that Levi should close up for the day. He’s overwrought.

“I’m fine,” Levi says shortly. For the first time since they met, he looks out of sorts. He runs a hand through his hair, moving restlessly behind the counter.

He is not fine, and Corvo tells him so. And then, feeling as if he’s pitching himself off a cliff, Corvo asks Levi if he wants to get out of here. The coffeeshop down the road is open, after all. They could go together and get coffee. He stops, then, in half a panic.

For a long, long moment, Levi stares at Corvo. His eyes are wide, his mouth half open. Color rises in his cheeks. He reaches out one hand in an abortive gesture, and then stops and shakes his head, snapping his mouth closed. “No. I can’t close up in the middle of the day. I’m sorry.”

And then he’s gone, the door to the back room slamming behind him.

Corvo watches after Levi, thinking that maybe he’d just killed whatever was growing between them, and sincerely regretting it.

That night he has an incredibly disturbing dream. He’s lost. A maze of blood-red roses surrounds him, the walls so close that he’s constantly being pricked by briars. The light is strange, like he’s not in reality, and unsettling sounds echo through the maze. And he’s looking for someone, someone he can’t find, but desperately needs to.

The dream comes back every night for a week. By day seven, he’s actually seen the person he’s looking for, though only from behind. And he still has no idea what’s happening.

He goes back to the flower shop on suggestion from Emily and Wyman, who are concerned about his mental health. Corvo doesn’t go late, but in the middle of the day on an empty Saturday, because…he honestly doesn’t want to scare Levi again. No idea why he’s going back, but here he is anyway. And when he walks in the door, Levi is alone, standing behind the counter, working on an arrangement of blood-red roses, thorn still on.

“They mean love,” he says without preamble. “And being pricked with thorns is something for a desire you can’t quite seems to reach. Dreams are funny things.”

Corvo stares at the florist. What is going on here?”

Levi gives him an unreadable look as he takes off his apron and drops it. “I’m taking you up on your offer of coffee, is what is going on,” he says. “Where are we going?”

It’s not a date.

Emily insists that it was a date.

Corvo gets the distinct feeling that it might have been a date.

They don’t call it a date.

The next time that Corvo comes around, still feeling surprisingly tentative, Levi is deeply engaged in work on a large, expensive arrangement. He calls Corvo back at once. In the back room, Levi explains that the client is one Alexandria Hypatia: a selfless, overworked doctor engaged in some groundbreaking research. She’ll be receiving her bouquet from a mysterious benefactor.

“Help me out?” he asks coolly, as if he doesn’t care.

Of course Corvo will help.

He’s mostly just holding things steady as Levi constructs the arrangement in a sturdy, tall vessel, a sort of urn. It looks rather elegant, but is in no way understated. It begins with white lilies, for honor, and white rose acacia, for elegance. Two long fronds of sumac and three shorter present intellectual excellence, while long stems of canary grass and a branch of laurel symbolize perseverance leading to glory. Finally, Levi leaves trailing vines of “traveler’s joy”, a common type of white clematis, for eventual rest. It’s a sort of constrained chaos, where the flowers actually constitute fewer colors than the leaves, which are half a dozen shades of green. Between the leaves of the clematis, the grass, the sumac, the laurel, and the leaves of the lilies and rose acacia, the green is almost more striking than the white.

“It’s good,” Levi says, standing back and surveying the arrangement. “Asymmetric and taller than I’d usually make, but striking to the eye if placed on the side table of, say, a large and important board room in which someone is making a research presentation.”

Corvo looks at Levi and raises a brow. Levi looks back, inscrutable, as Corvo asks if this bouquet is somehow designed to guarantee success. Is the good doctor about to experience a stroke of good fortune in an endeavor?

Levi carefully lifts the arrangement and sets it in a well-padded box for transport. “I don’t deliver good fortune,” he says. “Only flowers.”

Considering things that night as he stands at the window watching Dunwall fall asleep below him, Corvo has the sudden recognition that Levi has indeed delivered good fortune. Maybe not to Doctor Hypatia, maybe not to Emily, maybe not to the struggling writer or to Wyman or to any other client. But he’s delivered good fortune to Corvo.

When exactly did Corvo get this attached to a florist? A strange man with eyes that stare too long and know too much. Someone whose knowledge of other people borders on the supernatural. Who makes flower arrangements that either bring miraculous luck or dire catastrophe. Whose back room is full of impossible flowers, who knows the meanings of every plant he touches.

It’s not love, not exactly. It feels like there’s some kind of mark on him, some geas that keeps him going back to the flower shop. Of course he’s happy to do it: Levi is mysterious and fascinating. Though this whole thing is increasingly odd the more Corvo thinks about it, the more he thinks that he should set things straight with his strange young florist. He really ought to ask Levi out.

On Friday, when he goes next. He’ll do it. It seems inevitable.

He never gets that far.

The very next day, Corvo opens his door to find a flower arrangement in front of him. His name is written there in the terrible handwriting he knows belongs to Levi, but there’s no further message except a list of flowers. Corvo calls in sick to work, sits down at his desk, and goes to work finding a dictionary of the language of flowers so he can try to parse the language.

Round white camellias seem to speak to yearning. Columns of purple vetch say that the sender is shy. Pale pink clusters of rose daphne beg for understanding. The absolute bank of ferns says something of magic, and the trailing strands of ivy bespeak anxiousness to please. A single red rose at the center of the arrangement is a pointed “I love you”.

And then the flowers that nearly bowl Corvo right over: under the bigger, showier flowers are little purple-and-yellow flowers. The list claims that these are “heart’s ease”, another flower of yearning, but to Corvo’s eyes—and to the eyes of science, when he looks it up—they’re violets.

Levi sent him _violets._

What he had to say was more important than his utter hate of these innocuous little flowers.

It takes Corvo half the day to track down the flowers he wants and to sort out what, exactly, he’s going to say. He makes it to the flower shop by closing time, just as Levi is about to lock the door. Levi, unreadable except for the way he fidgets with his hands, lets Corvo in and locks the door behind him.

“I was wondering if you’d make it,” Levi says, serene. He stands still in the middle of the floor, waiting for Corvo to make the first move.

Corvo holds out the tiny bunch of white violets. He hasn’t got the skill or resources to create something stunning, not really. These will have to do.

Levi takes them, eyes wide, and reads the tiny card attached aloud. “Roses are red, these violets are white. Will you go out with me tonight?…”

He had taken a look at a dictionary of the language of flowers. White violets represent taking a chance on happiness. Corvo gets the sense that, for both of them, this is an unfamiliar experience. Levi isn’t the only nervous one.

For a moment, Corvo waits, tense. And then Levi looks up at him with a smile. He doesn’t say anything, remarkably, just rises up to very lightly kiss Corvo on the lips. It’s practically magical. No fireworks, but a faint tingle like sparks. Then they’re just smiling at each other like idiots, surrounded by flowers, in the same shop where the whole thing began.

It turns out that there’s no need to try to rhyme with purple, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> You may see these two again at the Spring Equinox. :3


End file.
